


this dream isn't feeling sweet

by s0dafucker



Category: Waterparks (Band)
Genre: Concept piece, Highschool AU, M/M, Pining, Romantic/sexual tension, also lowkey conan gray inspo, also they do fuck but its not underage bc they have december/january birthdays and theyre seniors, basically horny angsty teenager shit, ft vague scene transitions, i wrote the prom scene to the mitski cover of this is what we look like so thats why its like That, inspired by lorde! pure heroine really is an album abt that good ol small town angst, thats all i know how to write abt. yearning., track team au even tho i know literally nothing abt track, u know when ur gay and u live in a Society, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-02-26 16:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18720961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: senior year comes too fast. otto wood burrows his way into awsten's heart like a goddamn termite. sometimes a crash course feels more like stumbling through a dream.





	this dream isn't feeling sweet

**Author's Note:**

> if u wanna feel: [x](https://open.spotify.com/user/cosmic-chill/playlist/32XjtYA0AMOJvyaVzigOIF?si=yGH5YoG4Qkq1JXVka_lTjw)

maybe it was joining track that started it. maybe it was quitting. maybe it was the way grace’s gaze had slinked over him with something awsten couldn’t quite define. maybe it was the glass of water soaked through his shirt.

travis’s hand is in jawn’s hair, absently, the two of them melted into one library chair. awsten is an ocean away. (travis and jawn don’t question it, because he always is, isn’t he?) the last snow of the year is kissing the windows.

‘i’m joining the golf team.’ he announces to no one in particular.

jawn looks up from his camera and arches an eyebrow. ‘you hate golf.’

he does.  

‘i’m going fucking stir-crazy. i’m joining.’

‘golf’s a fall sport.’ travis murmurs. his ankle is hooked around jawn’s calf. it’s obscene.

awsten bounces his leg and fiddles with the rip in his jeans. ‘i’ll do track.’ he says. stubborn to a fault, jawn likes to say.  

he makes the team. he wears the tiny school-issue shorts and ignores the way his hair clashes with the red.

‘hey! awsten, right? didn’t we do scouts together?’

otto wood. awsten drags the name from the back of his mind to attach it somewhat-firmly to the guy in front of him, who sports a smile and a track t-shirt; ‘yeah. you saw a bear on the camping trip.’ (otto beams even more widely at that, solidifying him as _definitely otto._ point awsten.)

‘i didn’t know you ran.’

‘neither did i.’

it’s day one. awsten thinks calling himself a runner is generous. otto- who is definitely a runner, no pity needed- does a couple laps with him. he’s a distance runner, he explains; no good in anything shorter than 800 meters.

‘because i got short legs.’ he says, laughing. ‘you could take me in a sprint,’ his eyes rake awsten up and down in a way that stops short of anything but _competitive_ and _good-natured._ he lifts his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face and awsten looks anywhere else.

it’s march and awsten is beating his PR for the 200m and otto is yelling, jumping up and down and hollering and he pulls awsten into a breathless, bone-crushing hug and bursts his eardrum with, ‘you did it! that’s two fucking seconds off!’

awsten bites his tongue and tastes sepia. otto wood bites and kicks and claws his way into a place inside him that no one should be. otto wood takes him out for shitty fast food after a meet and they laugh and they laugh and awsten decidedly does not think about how it would feel to reach under the table and feel otto’s thigh beneath his hand.

‘we’re gonna go to states this year. i can feel it.’ it’s wednesday march 27th and awsten should be asleep but he’s staring up at the night sky and listening to otto’s scratchy voice over facetime. (‘i live on a farm,’ he’d said, laughing, the first time awsten complained about his quality.)

‘you think?’

‘oh, yeah. with you on the 200 and geoff on middle distance? it’s in the fuckin’ bag.’

‘mm.’ awsten glances at his phone- otto’s doing homework, his hair falling forward into his eyes. ‘you remember much about scouts? i was just thinking about how we never really talked after that.’

‘i remember how you used to fight with the troop leaders.’ awsten laughs- he’d all but forgotten. ‘i remember i liked how you stood up for the little kids.’ otto looks up and smiles fondly. the warmth in his eyes is visible now, even with the low light and his shitty farm connection.

jawn and awsten walk along the train tracks. it’s april and texas is finally acting like texas and jawn’s hair is tied up and awsten is bleeding stars all over the spring grass.

‘i applied for the photography scholarship.’

awsten stumbles.

the scissors are stubborn and sticking but jawn is stronger and in a second his ponytail lies on the bathroom floor. awsten sits on the lip of the tub, hair damp with cherry red. the warm breeze comes in through the window and stirs the candle on the sill. the flame flickers, but it’s unrelenting. jawn thinks running for fun is the stupidest thing in the world- and awsten said the same thing about yearbook last year. it hangs in the air humid and unchallenged.

jawn’s roots are all that’s left and it makes awsten want to cry.

‘what’s that saying? unstoppable force meets immovable object?’ awsten’s decked out in school colors and otto is tapping his pencil against his notebook. they’re in track jackets and a coffeehouse and awsten looks up.

‘yeah. think so.’

‘sweet.’ otto scribbles something down. ‘have you applied for any colleges yet?’

‘you sound like my mom.’

otto grins. awsten sips his iced coffee.

‘grace’s going to USC.’ he taps his pencil on his essay. ‘she wants me to come with her.’

awsten keeps his eyes on his notes.

regionals is a blur. grace is there, and she’s cheering- otto smiles with his whole body and awsten’s gaze slips to travis and jawn, half-hearted but supportive. they smile and travis lifts his hand in a wave. awsten returns it.

they win. not by much, but they do it, and awsten is breathless and sweating by the end but there’s a warm, satisfied ache that accompanies it, and jawn slaps his back in a gesture that’s foreign to them. the team gets dinner at some diner, a mom and pop joint, all of them pressed into a booth, hair wild and eyes shining and across the table, otto glows.

it’s almost may and jawn is walking beside him, both of them with hair short and red. awsten’s legs are shaky from practice. jawn is tugging at his hoodie strings, his sleeves, his collar. his nails are bitten short. awsten’s dragging a corpse in a boy scouts uniform behind him.

‘got my acceptance letter today. me and travis had a fight about it.’

awsten trips and splits his lip.

otto’s car is an old honda civic and when awsten rests his arm on the center console, his hand touches otto’s on the stick shift. some johnny cash song is on the country station. (every station’s a country station, but otto managed to find the good one.)

‘you going to prom?’

awsten's mouth still tastes faintly of blood. ‘maybe.’ he can't be kissed now, too bruised and battered and scabbed. practice wore them both out, but awsten was tired to begin with; too achey and full of longing to think. his sneakers rest on the dashboard, and he lets his eyes slip out of focus staring at the line of brakelights in front of them.

‘just got my suit yesterday.’

formal wear looks out of place on otto, awsten decides. he’s wearing the beat-up sneakers he wears to practice- awsten can see them under the dark line of his pants. the laces are worn and muddy from a walk along the riverbank. (awsten can remember the glow of his eyes in the sunset. cliches.)

awsten’s wearing his all-purpose suit. homecoming, funerals, the odd church service- it’s seen them all. now, it fits a little too tight and a little too short and gives him a collar to fiddle with while otto does the same with his corsage. his tongue probes at the still-tender wound in his mouth; it’s nearly healed over, but not quite.

there’s something in the air, and awsten can feel it. there’s a part of him that wants to ask, wants to come out and stab at it, find where otto ends and he begins, and he won’t. states are this weekend.

grace holds out her hand. awsten blinks.

‘you’re awsten.’ she says. there’s something dark in her eyes.

they shake. she’s warm. they’re all starting to fucking sweat in here.

she holds otto’s arm.  

the punch starts to burn on its way down and awsten passes his cup to travis. he feels sick.

otto’s standing outside when awsten opens a side door. he’s got a plastic cup against his lips.

‘awsten.’ he says it and it sounds like relief. it drips exhaustion all the way down awsten’s throat. their palms fit together without a thought, their backs against the wall. otto offers his cup and awsten wants to tell him the only way he wants alcohol is if he could taste it on otto’s tongue. ‘no thanks,’ he says.

‘i’m gonna miss you. when we graduate.’ otto’s fingers reach out and intertwine with awsten’s. it smells too much like summer.

‘yeah.’ it’s barely a whisper and suddenly it’s too hard to manage words so he squeezes otto’s hand and hopes it says more than he can. his bones are aching. his chest is aching. he stares straight ahead into the endless night. otto squeezes back.

nothing exists except the warm air and their white knuckles, not the ache of graduation or the sense that the evening is stretched too tight.

they lose at states. it’s awsten’s fault, awsten’s mistake that he didn’t account for in the bathroom before, didn’t consider on the bus ride there, too busy with _otto otto otto_ and he stumbles, just barely, and gives the kid from dallas a lead that is enough- and their pole vault girl falls, and middle distance geoff is off, and there’s a chance until awsten trips on his own feet and loses the damn thing. dallas doesn’t win either, which is a small consolation.

he’s not a runner, he reminds himself. he’s drinking a gatorade and hiding behind the bus and remembering that he wasn’t a runner until this year, until months ago, so it shouldn’t sting like it does, and someone comes around, looking for somewhere to smoke or cry or hide and he looks up and it’s otto. his face is so open, so trusting and tender and oh, god, awsten could cry. otto smiles, soft, and says, ‘you did good.’  

‘i’m not a runner.’ awsten admits. otto laughs softly.

‘you’re not.’

‘so,’ he swallows. his throat is dry. ‘why didn’t i quit?’

otto finds that country station again. awsten traces the scar tissue on the inside of his lip.

‘i prob’ly have some sweatpants that’ll fit you.’ awsten says he turns his key and toes off his shoes. his parents are out of town.

otto gets a glass of water and cuffs awsten’s sweats so the fine bones of his ankles are visible, pale under the sock tan he’s gotten from practice. they sit on the floor and awsten is reminded vividly of scouts as otto sits down across from him, of sitting in campfire circles and running around outside and not caring.

he cares, now. about everything. so much that it hurts. so much that he barely blinks when otto, slowly, deliberately, leans forward. he’s talking about something and just like that it’s gone, it’s stuttering and fading and it’s the way he swallows instead of reminding otto of the glass of water in his hand.

awsten watches otto's adam's apple bob once, twice. the water is cold on his chest and dripping onto the carpet and neither of them move.

'i'll...' awsten's voice is scraped raw. he lifts his shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him. otto nods, a jerky sort of half-movement.

awsten feels like he's seeing in HD, like when he used to put glasses on in the morning, like everything's been turned up to a knife-sharp clarity, like the dark brown of otto's curls is hyperreal and indescribably fake, all at once. they're silent, they're playing pretend at being people. otto moves slowly, a boy underwater, leaning into awsten's space with movements that play act at certainty. their lips brush and awsten almost can't stand it.

it is nothing and then it is everything- oh, god, it is everything, awsten's bones are pushing at his skin, awsten's stomach is filled with knots that are molten and writhing and otto's hand rests on his chest, right over his heart, where he can most definitely feel its frantic attempts to escape.

_'plato wrote once that every soul is just a half.' awsten is searching for a rock to skip and he says, 'yeah?'_

_'yeah. zeus split 'em all, so all people are tethered to each other. searching for their other halves.'_

_awsten finds a decent rock and watches it bounce once, twice._

_he turns and otto's eyes are lit up in gold._

it almost feels like practice, to be sweaty and exhausted and to inhale and smell otto. their legs are touching. their arms are touching. awsten would be hard-pressed to find a place that they aren’t touching. he shifts to be closer to him, to think about the rise and fall of his chest instead of the puddle soaked into the carpet or his certainty of the fleeting nature of whatever this is. awsten focuses on the warm, full feeling in his chest and the low rasp of otto’s voice when he says, ‘get some sleep.’ awsten focuses on anything that isn’t overthinking.

it’s harder in the morning. it’s harder when the bed is emptier and colder and awsten’s shoulders are up by his ears and this is what a one-night stand feels like, huh, like the movies, only it’s highschool and his friend- _his best friend,_ his brain supplies and he rushes to correct it because that’s jawn, it’s always been jawn, and he’s wound so tight he might snap when his bedroom door opens and otto comes in looking rumpled and lovely. ‘i had to piss,’ he murmurs next to awsten’s ear.

it’s mid-may and otto won’t look his way. otto won’t touch his hand. otto will drive him home and kiss him gently, whisper sweet nothings, share his water when they’re both panting and sweating and awsten’s eyes are tracing the hard lines of his abs- otto presses their palms together for a moment, and awsten can feel his pulse. it won’t last.

‘an orbit is like a constant free-fall,’ geoff from track says, a lopsided smile on his face. awsten’s sunburnt cheek is against the cool plastic of his desk. ‘it’s kind of romantic, don’t you think? to be falling forever and never be separated from the planet. it’s why our satellites keep going.’

‘yeah.’ physics is beyond him. he’s always been more of an english guy.

‘it’s a terminal velocity thing, y’know? like, once the resistance of gravity cancels out the fall, and it doesn’t mean anything anymore. a free-fall that never goes anywhere.’

awsten isn’t a runner. grace brings otto a water bottle during practice and otto smiles and kisses her except awsten knows what those lips feel like now. it’s june and he’s never been one to half-ass things.

awsten takes up tennis. awsten walks a different way home. awsten stays in the yearbook room with jawn and travis until he wants to puncture his own eardrum. he’s a gas stove. he’s an arsonist. which is to say he’s frayed at the edges. which is to say he’s bright red. which is to say he picked a sport where rage is key.

otto doesn’t even call until he’s missed three practices in a row, and awsten lets it ring- jawn gives his phone a cursory glance and his eyes say it all.

awsten hits the ball and it gives him a satisfying _crack,_ bouncing to the ground and then the wall and he misses. he lets it go off past him and tells it, ‘fuck you.’

‘harsh.’

‘don’t you have ‘yearbook shit’ to do?’ his voice sounds bitter, even to him, and the airquotes have their own brand of malice wrapped up into a neat little package.

‘come on.’ jawn says, voice hard. ‘you know that’s not fair.’

awsten turns on his heel and he doesn’t even want to think about what he looks like, all wild hair and stony eyes, and jawn looks at him evenly, impassive, the crease between his brows and the weight of his gaze holding awsten steady.

the air is damp and hot and jawn says, gentler this time, ‘what happened with him?’

awsten shakes his head. ‘i don’t…’ he drops his racket, suddenly exhausted. something about the look in jawn’s eyes makes his irritation feel so small and pointless.

‘i liked him more than he liked me,’ he decides. ‘and it fucked me over.’

jawn’s expression unravels, the tense line of his shoulders melting away. ‘’m sorry.’ the almost-crying feeling that’s been a silent companion the last few months is bubbling up in awsten’s throat, and he’s trying his hardest to swallow it down-

jawn opens his arms, slightly, a peace offering, and awsten nods. awsten hugs him back and awsten gets tears on his t-shirt and it feels too easy but the catch doesn’t come. it never comes. jawn holds him out on the tennis court until his shoulders stop shaking.

jawn and travis come over, the night before graduation, all of them shaky and nervous and laughing. they’re kissing the yellow lines of the highway and they’re writing love notes on the billboards and they’re dragging worn-out sneakers over sidewalks that sparkle. awsten’s worrying at the skin of his lips but it’s alright because jawn looks at him in his cap and gown and his eyes overflow.

‘hey-’ awsten hears his voice in his dreams and by that he means he’d know it anywhere, he wants you to know that he’d know otto’s voice if he were half-deaf and otto was half-dead, he’d know otto’s voice from one syllable and he _does-_ and he keeps walking, keeps looking straight ahead.

‘hey!’ it’s more insistent this time and awsten is looking at the stage, at the empty seat in the row for k through m, anywhere but behind him or down at his shoes because he’ll lose his mind if he does. he’s so close to vomiting as it is.

‘awsten.’ it’s close. it’s too close. otto’s hand lands on his shoulder and he turns and he isn’t ready for it. he’s not sure anything could’ve made him ready. he could live a thousand years, he thinks, and never be prepared to see the relieved smile that radiates through every fiber of otto’s body and fizzles excitedly at the joint of awsten’s shoulder.

‘i missed you.’

awsten can’t speak. _for once,_ says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like jawn’s.

‘i broke up with grace. i’ve been meaning to tell you, but you stopped coming to practice, and then you wouldn’t answer your phone, and we don’t have class together-’

‘you remember,’ awsten’s throat is too dry, and it crackles halfway out of his mouth. he swallows and tries again. ‘you remember when we went on that camping trip, for scouts? and i fell. i slipped off that fucking cliff and i broke my ankle.’ it’s why his mom made him quit. he was in a cast for weeks. ‘the day after you saw the bear.’

otto nods. he doesn’t interject. awsten can hear people talking onstage. the auditorium’s gonna start filling up soon.

‘you climbed down there to help me. it took you forever. but you never stopped. you just kept telling me to hold on, that you’d be there in a second. you-’ awsten isn’t even sure what he’s getting at himself, just that something needs to be said, and it needs to be said soon, that if it’s too late it’s far too late.

_‘so what does plato think we should do, then?’_

_otto’s gaze is unwavering. it burns._

_‘keep looking.’_

_‘wise.’ awsten says, his voice dripping and sardonic, the instinct to balance, if not overpower, otto’s untouched sincerity- he skips another rock and it goes to the other bank of the river._

_‘i’d give people hints, if i were zeus. y’know? i wouldn’t just fuck them over and leave them stranded. i’d give ‘em something to go off of.’_

_‘yeah?’ the muscles in awsten’s forearms stiffen. another rock leaves ripples in the molasses current._

_‘yeah.’_

‘i don’t want to miss you when we graduate. i don’t want to see you today and see you in ten years at the reunion and never see you again. i… i don’t want to do this alone, otto. and for a little while, you made me think i didn’t have to.’ he knows what he wants to say and it’s slippery in his mouth, it makes him about ready to choke, but this is his only chance and he knows it. ‘i don’t want that to end.’

otto’s looking at him with those big brown eyes and his voice is whisper-quiet but steady when he says, ‘me neither.’

**Author's Note:**

> there's one human emotion and it's pure heroine by lorde
> 
> this is almost a vent piece. theres a lot of heart in it bc on god.. i am so afraid of graduating. when lorde said 'it feels so scary getting old' i felt that  
> the original idea 4 this was a lot more goofy and fun and i got too invested so now its............... tender. gay love is just like that ig.
> 
> anyway awsten and otto spend summer driving to the middle of nowhere and making out in otto's civic and then they go to college together


End file.
